by Graham Ison
‘If she’d peached on me, I’d have gone inside as well, and I didn’t fancy that. But I swear I didn’t know what she was going to do, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’
Hardcastle didn’t believe for one moment that Walker was unaware of what Marjorie Hibberd had in mind, but he made no comment about it. ‘So, what was your part in all this?’
‘I had to get Stoner to some place that was quiet. I’d found out that he and his mate Holroyd had got this sort of garage place down at Ditton, and that sounded good. It was well away from Soho, and I knew that Stoner was actually living there, so I put the arm on Celine to tell me when he was next going down there.’
‘And when you found out, you told Marjorie and took her down there because she didn’t know where it was.’
‘Yeah. But I didn’t know she was going to murder him, Mr Hardcastle. I thought she just wanted to talk to him.’ Even as the words came out of his mouth, Walker must have realized how implausible they sounded. ‘You see, I didn’t know Celine was going to be there. Stoner was in the workshop when we arrived, and straight away Marjorie grabbed this car-jack handle and hit him with it.’
‘Did she say anything?’ asked Marriott.
‘Not a word. She was a powerful woman, you see. She’d been a trapeze artiste when she was younger, before she took up dancing. I reckon she must’ve killed him with that one blow. But then Celine appeared from nowhere. I suppose she must’ve been in the office. There were a couple of camp beds in there, and I suppose—’
‘Yes, all right. I can guess the rest. What did Celine do?’ asked Marriott.
‘Well, she’d seen everything, and she started screaming in French that Marjorie was a murderess.’
‘If she was speaking in French, how did you know that’s what she was saying?’ asked Hardcastle, becoming highly suspicious about Walker’s account.
‘I learned quite a lot of French when I was stationed in Boulogne, Inspector. Anyway, Celine obviously sensed that she was in danger, and turned to run away, but Marjorie went after her and hit her with the car-jack handle. Celine went down and lay still.’
‘And you’re saying that you took no part in these murders, that you were just an innocent spectator.’
‘All I did was throw the car-jack handle back into the workshop while Marjorie dragged Celine’s body in there, too. Then she turned on me. She blamed me for not knowing that Celine was there, because she’d had to kill her, too; otherwise she’d have peached on us.’
‘Where did you first meet Marjorie Hibberd?’ Marriott made it sound as though he had only posed the question out of interest.
Walker was momentarily disconcerted by the sudden switch in questioning, and wondered what to say, but then he decided there would be no point in lying, and that this quiet detective probably knew the answer anyway. ‘At the Brighton Hippodrome. Why?’
‘What were you doing there? In the audience, were you? A stage-door johnnie?’
Walker laughed. ‘No, I was an actor. Started as soon as I came out of the army. I’d taken part in one or two concert parties for the lads in Boulogne, and rather took a fancy to it. Trouble was that the pay of an actor wasn’t up to much, not unless you made it to the West End stage, and not always then. To tell you the truth, running our team of girls paid much better.’
‘So, it was your acting skills that enabled you to play the part of the stricken, grieving husband so convincingly the first time you showed up here,’ said Marriott. He felt like leaning over the table and hitting the smug little pimp sitting opposite.
‘That’s all very interesting, Walker. But, in fact, that’s all pie in the sky. Marjorie got you to murder them.’ Hardcastle lit his pipe and sat back in his chair to await Walker’s reaction to an accusation that implied he had not believed a word of what Walker had just been saying.
‘Oh my God, no! I never killed them. Honestly. You’ve got to believe me, Inspector.’ Having been open and honest with the two detectives – at least, his version of openness and honesty – Walker realized that his play-acting had been in vain.
‘Make no mistake, Walker,’ said Hardcastle, ‘you’re for the drop.’
‘She made me tell her when Stoner was going to be at Ditton,’ Walker pleaded desperately. ‘She threatened to grass on me to the police about it if I didn’t help her out.’
‘About what?’
‘About procuring the girls for her in Brighton and here, and she said I’d get a long stretch in the nick because judges have taken against people who run brothels. Then she told me what the other cons did to ponces inside. She frightens the life out of me, Inspector. Always has.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d received information from the army about Walker, Marriott? I never want to go into an interview without being fully prepared. You should know that by now.’ Hardcastle was very annoyed at what he perceived to be disloyalty on the part of his sergeant.
‘I only received it a minute or so before you sent for me to interview Walker, sir.’
Hardcastle grunted. ‘Yes, well, don’t let it happen again.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Marriott had learned over the years that there was no profit in arguing with the DDI. ‘Are you going to charge Walker, sir?’
‘There’s no doubt in my mind that he was a principal in the second degree, Marriott, but what’s more important right now is to arrest Marjorie Hibberd. It’s a pity that Catto didn’t bring her in at the same time as Walker.’
‘I doubt that he had grounds for arresting her at that time, sir.’
‘Maybe not.’ Hardcastle rarely admitted to being wrong. ‘But you can send him and Ritchie up to that club right now. She might be so confident that she thinks her cat’s paw Walker wouldn’t have told us what he did. She might just have gone to work as usual. If not, it’ll take months if not years to locate her, because if she’s got any sense, she’ll have upped sticks and run. Possibly even abroad,’ he added gloomily.
Marriott tended to agree with the last part of Hardcastle’s comment. He did not think that after Walker’s arrest that afternoon she would have waited for the police to come back and arrest her. Nevertheless, he returned to the detectives’ office and called Catto and Ritchie over to his desk.
‘You’re to go to that club where Marjorie Hibberd works and arrest her, Henry. Walker has just accused her of murdering Guy Stoner and Celine Fontenau and running a prostitution ring from among the team of dancers that she claimed to be protecting.’
‘If she was running a team of prostitutes, Skipper,’ said Catto, ‘surely Major Craddock must’ve known about it. D’you want him arrested as well?’
‘Not yet,’ said Marriott. ‘Living on immoral earnings or running a bawdy house is nothing compared with two counts of murder. Anyway, C Division can always go after him if they want to.’
NINETEEN
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said the admissions manager, as effusive as ever. ‘I presume you wish to see the major. You’re becoming regular visitors.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Catto. ‘By the way, is Mrs Hibberd here?’
‘Our dear Marjorie? Yes, she’s here somewhere. Did you want to see her, too?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Catto in an offhand way.
‘I’ll just call the major, then.’ The doorkeeper – because in reality that is what he was – made a brief telephone call, and a few minutes later, Leo Craddock limped into the foyer.
‘Good evening, Sergeant Catto. Ah, and Constable Ritchie, I see. Would you care to come up to my office, gentlemen?’
‘Thank you, Major,’ said Catto, and he and Ritchie followed Craddock’s slow progress up to the first floor.
‘Well, now, gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this evening?’ Craddock’s hand hovered over a bottle of Laphroaig, an unspoken invitation to join him in a drink.
But Catto shook his head. ‘You recall the first occasion we called here, Major Craddock, I mentioned that we were investigating
two murders.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Craddock, pouring himself a whisky. ‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’
‘We have made one arrest, but there are other people involved. To that end, I’d like to speak to Marjorie Hibberd if she’s here this evening,’ said Catto, although he had already ascertained from the doorman that she was here.
‘You think she might be able to help, eh?’ Craddock reached for his telephone and made a call.
‘We’re convinced that she’ll be able to,’ said Ritchie. He knew why Catto had refrained from mentioning the real reason for their visit. Loyalty to one’s ostensibly trusted employee might even extend to warning her of the intentions of the police, although he doubted that Craddock would be silly enough to protect a murderess.
Marjorie Hibberd appeared in Craddock’s office within minutes of his telephone call. Following the prevailing fashion of shapeless and sleeveless dresses, she wore a velvet creation in mauve with a gold silk edging to the hem.
‘You wanted me, Major?’ she glanced at the two police officers, convinced that their visit to Charlwood Place that morning and the arrest of Gerald Walker was somehow connected to their arrival here.
‘Actually, these officers would like to speak to you, Marjorie.’
‘Have you come to tell me that you made a mistake in arresting poor Gerald this morning?’
‘No, Mrs Hibberd,’ said Catto. ‘We’ve come to tell you that he is to be charged as a principal in the second degree to the commission of two murders, namely those of Guy Stoner and Celine Fontenau.’
‘What on earth makes you think that he’d have murdered his own wife?’ Marjorie Hibberd almost spat the words. ‘It’s absolutely ludicrous.’
‘Celine Fontenau was not Walker’s wife, as you well know,’ said Catto as he and Ritchie stood up. ‘Marjorie Hibberd, I’m arresting you for the wilful murders of Guy Stoner and Celine Fontenau. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’
‘Whatever are you talking about?’ demanded Craddock, his face registering shock. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake. I’ve known Marjorie for a number of years and—’
‘I suggest that you don’t interfere, Major Craddock,’ said Ritchie. ‘Such intervention may be misconstrued or even regarded as obstructing police in the execution of their duty.’
For a moment or two, Craddock stared at Ritchie, amazed at the policeman’s command of English, but he took Ritchie’s advice and remained silent.
‘My lawyers will sue you for every penny you possess,’ said Marjorie, her voice rising a little.
‘You will now be taken to Cannon Row police station, Mrs Hibberd, where you will be charged with two counts of murder,’ said Catto, ignoring the woman’s empty threat.
It was approaching eight o’clock that evening by the time Catto and Ritchie returned to Cannon Row police station. Once Hardcastle had been told of the arrest of Marjorie Hibberd, he went straight down to the charge room, arriving at the same time as the station officer entered with the charge book and a sheaf of papers.
‘All correct, sir,’ said the station officer.
Hardcastle nodded in response to what he regarded as a pointless report, made whether things were all correct or not. But, perversely, he was annoyed if the report was not made.
‘You needn’t think you’ll get anywhere by questioning me,’ said Marjorie, ‘because I’m not saying anything about this ridiculous allegation that I murdered those two people.’
‘I have no questions to ask you,’ said Hardcastle mildly. ‘I have all the evidence I need.’ He turned to the station officer. ‘The charge is the wilful murders of Guy Stoner and Celine Fontenau, Sergeant.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The divisional detective inspector’s decision made the sergeant’s task much easier. He had no option but to put the charges without questioning the arresting officers. Once the formalities were complete, the sergeant asked, ‘To be kept in custody, sir?’
‘Of course she’ll be kept in custody, Sergeant. I hope you’re not suggesting that someone charged with two counts of murder should be released on bail.’
‘No, sir,’ said the sergeant, wondering why DDIs had to be so bloody awkward, given that they knew the rules, ‘but I’m obliged to ask.’
As was to be expected on a Saturday morning, Bow Street police court was bustling with activity. Black vans with darkened windows were delivering detainees who had been collected from various London prisons and police stations. Inside the marble-floored entrance hall, names of witnesses or people surrendering to bail were called at intervals. Policemen rushed hither and thither, and a layman could be forgiven for wondering how any semblance of order could come from such chaos, but somehow it worked tolerably well.
Most of Friday night’s prostitutes had been gathered up in London’s West End and would appear at Marlborough Street police court, but there were still a few who had been arrested within Bow Street’s catchment area. It was these ‘ladies of the night’ who firmly believed that they were entitled to appear before the magistrate first, taking precedence over drunks and the assorted rag, tag and bobtail who regularly appeared there. They were, therefore, a little put out that a man and a woman who had been charged with murder should appear first in the dock of Number One Court.
‘You are Marjorie Hibberd and you live at Charlwood Place in the City of Westminster?’ asked the clerk of the court.
‘Yes,’ said Marjorie. ‘And I am innocent of this ludicrous charge—’
The clerk raised his hand. ‘You will be given the opportunity to enter a plea at a later date, Mrs Hibberd. This is merely a preliminary hearing.’ He turned to the other prisoner in the dock. ‘You are Gerald Walker and you live at the same address as your co-defendant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Walker.
The clerk stood up, turned and handed a sheet of paper to the magistrate.
‘Mr Hardcastle?’ The Chief Magistrate glanced at the DDI as he ascended the witness box.
‘The charge is murder, Your Worship, and there will be two counts on the indictment if Your Worship agrees that there is a case to answer.’
‘Very well. I’ll not take a plea this morning.’ The Chief Magistrate looked down at the ledger. ‘Remanded in custody to appear again at this court on Monday the thirtieth of May. Perhaps you will then be in a position to inform the court when committal proceedings are likely to commence.’
‘I’m obliged, Your Worship,’ said Hardcastle as the two prisoners were escorted down the steps from the dock to the cells below. As he was leaving, he heard the clerk say, ‘Ethel Davis, you are charged with soliciting prostitution in Drury Lane …’
Sir Patrick Sloane KC had his chambers at Grant Court in the Temple, a rabbit warren of barristers’ accommodation that lay between Fleet Street and Victoria Embankment. In common with many others in his profession, he worked in a room that was too small to afford any degree of comfort to the number of people who, from time to time, arrived for a conference. Nevertheless, he had somehow contrived to find chairs for Hardcastle, Marriott and Catto who were now squeezed together around the barrister’s desk.
‘Since our last conference, Mr Hardcastle, I have consulted the Director of Public Prosecutions, Sir Archibald Bodkin.’ Seeing the frown on Catto’s face, Sir Patrick said, ‘We have to have his fiat to go ahead in cases of murder, Sergeant Catto. His decision was that Hibberd be charged with murder and that Walker should also face a similar charge. Walker’s request to turn King’s evidence was rejected by the DPP, mainly because, Mr Hardcastle, in your statement you say that Walker is an inveterate liar.’
‘And so he is, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He invented a background that was totally false, and I’m not convinced by the statement he made claiming that Hibberd was solely responsible for the murders.’
‘I gather from your report that you believe him to have been an active participant.’
‘I do, sir.’
‘As for the man Holroyd and his brother-in-law …’ Sloane began to sort through the untidy heaps of papers on his desk while muttering incomprehensively.
‘His brother-in-law’s name is Harold Barton, sir, if that’s what you were looking for. He was the butcher who has admitted dismembering the bodies at Ditton.’
‘Exactly so. I’m much obliged, Mr Hardcastle. Holroyd and Barton will be charged with disposing of the corpses with intent to prevent a coroner’s inquest. It’s a common law offence and could carry life imprisonment, although it never does. On the other hand, they’re more likely to get off with a slap on the wrist unless their actions impeded your enquiries. Rather depends which judge we get on the day. There again, of course, I might suggest that they are dealt with summarily. We shall see.’
‘Holroyd is in custody and facing a charge of armed robbery, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Unconnected with this murder case.’
‘Is he, by Jove? Sounds a bit of a bad hat. In that case, I’ll not object to it being dealt with summarily. The stipe will probably give him three months to be going on with until he appears at the Old Bailey.’ Sloane chuckled at the thought. ‘So, there we have it, Mr Hardcastle. I’ll let you know when we have a date.’ He stood up and shook hands with the three detectives. ‘See you down at the Bailey.’
The trial of Marjorie Hibberd and Gerald Walker opened at the Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey, in the City of London, on Thursday the fifteenth of September 1927 before Mr Justice Squires. That morning’s papers were, however, more interested in the news that Isadora Duncan, the American dancer, had met a bizarre death in Nice when her scarf had become entangled with the rear wheel of the car in which she was travelling. She was thrown on to the road where she died of a broken neck.
‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before this court of oyer and terminer and general gaol delivery pray draw near.’ After the court crier had had his moment of glory with that age-old proclamation, the judge took his seat after exchanging bows with counsel. ‘Sir Patrick?’